


it’s not how big, it’s how mean

by wiski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Biting, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Neck Kissing, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiski/pseuds/wiski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So… Is this an actual neck thing or just your oral fixation?” He asks while idly running a hand up and down the relaxed curve of Stiles’s spine. “I thought <b>I</b> was the werewolf in this relationship.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	it’s not how big, it’s how mean

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another plotless wonder set in some nebulous HEA future. I'm sensing a pattern here...
> 
> This was inspired by [this truly inspiring picture of Derek's neck and jawline](http://wiskix.tumblr.com/post/71848529017/savethehales-wiskix-no-you-cannot-tell-me). As you can see in the comment thread I was already getting a bit carried away then, though I maintain I was sick at the time. And soon things deteriorated further and this fic went from tiny neck kink drabble to 7k of full-on explicit porn. And here we are.
> 
> FIRST TIME WRITING SEXYTIEMS, PLS BE GENTLE WITH ME??? ;-;
> 
> Title from Lady Gaga's _Teeth_ , because I just can't help myself.
> 
> Unbetaed, though my friends Luce and neviot were kind enough to read through my draft and tell me this doesn't suck as much as I thought it did. And shout out to nahsiah for epic hand-holding through this nightmare. I LOVE YOU GUYS.
> 
> ETA: VISUAL AID. ([SOURCE](http://savethehales.tumblr.com/post/70617229795))
> 
>  

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He’s been subjected to Stiles’s torturously tactile displays of casual affection for many, many months now, forced to suffer through countless demonstrations of friendly roughhousing and manly cuddles and the infamous Stilinski Hug, and is wholly, painfully aware—as though anyone could miss it—of Stiles’s terrible, horrible oral fixation, having been brutally victimized countless times by Stiles licking, sucking, biting and otherwise molesting  _any_  and  _everything_. Now, in addition to all that, he can even boast of weeks of firsthand experience with Stiles’s almost aggressive post-coital cuddling and all his touchy-feely, handsy ways, cranked up to eleven in deference to their altered relationship status. Despite all that (and his now rather intimate acquaintance with that fucking  _mouth_ , in various positions), Derek still finds himself a bit startled when his pleasant post-orgasm lassitude is interrupted by the faint sting of insistent teeth nibbling at a patch of skin at the dip of his throat.

The two of them are only just coming down from their mutual highs after an exceptionally enjoyable frottage session. The air is heavy with the almost overpowering stench of  _sex_ and _them_. They are both gloriously naked—save for the single black sock on Derek’s left foot which he’s been doggedly trying to toe off without too much movement this past minute—and still slightly damp with perspiration, their limbs a tangled mess and stomachs tacky with semen. Stiles is plastered all along Derek’s left side, arms and legs wrapped sloppily around Derek’s body like a particularly friendly octopus and face tucked snugly into the crook of Derek’s neck and shoulder. It’s the most convenient position (tested over time to achieve maximal reach with minimal movement) for attaching his mouth to Derek’s neck, which is fast becoming Stiles’s favorite pastime. Well, besides actual sex, obviously.

Derek knows from experience that Stiles can keep at it for hours, so he prods him in the hip until Stiles grudgingly dislodges from his favored position to let Derek wipe away the worst of the mess between them. It’s a token effort, really. They’ll probably still end up with pubic hair glued to their bellies later. (Neither of them gives a fuck.)

Stiles is all over him again in no time at all. “Mmmmmnngghffphhh,” he says happily from where he has now latched onto a tendon in the side of Derek’s neck and is applying gentle suction there, accompanied by lazy strokes of his tongue. Derek blows out a quick exhale and blindly chucks the wad of tissue out of the way.

It’s not like Derek isn’t enjoying Stiles’s weird obsession with his neck; far from it actually. Derek is a werewolf, necks are his  _thing_. The wet heat of Stiles’s mouth, the prickly press of his teeth, the soothing drag of his tongue, the coolness of drying saliva on his skin, the dull throbbing of his own pulse at the site of the abuse, it all feels amazing; _exquisite_ , even. Plus, everything is doused in a pleasant if somewhat sluggish haze of contentment and residual lust right now. Needless to say the combination of everything is doing  _very_  good things for him. So, no, definitely no complaints from him. He’s just intrigued and caught off-guard, and so what if his recent orgasm has him loosened up enough to indulge in some pillow talk?

“So… Is this an actual neck thing or just your oral fixation?” He asks while idly running a hand up and down the relaxed curve of Stiles’s spine. “I thought  _I_  was the werewolf in this relationship.”

Stiles clicks his tongue dismissively at that, although since his mouth is still pressed to Derek’s skin, Derek is able to feel the accompanying minute twitch of his lips, a whisper of breath, the barest brush of tongue, all magnified against Derek’s hyper-sensitized skin. He can’t quite manage to suppress the full-body shudder, and feels Stiles hum thoughtfully against his neck.

Stiles doesn’t actually reply until several moments later. “Fuck that specieist stereotyping bullshit,” he says huffily, finally deigning to release Derek’s abused neck in order to speak. Derek feels the sudden rush from his advanced healing kicking in and huffs out a quick breath, then hides an amused smile as Stiles barrels on indignantly. “What, I can’t have a neck kink? Well guess what, little human Stiles is gonna gnaw on the Big Bad Wolf’s neck as much as he wants and the Big Bad Wolf is gonna take it and  _like_  it.” There is definitely a heavily implied “ _so there_ ” tacked to the end.

Derek rolls his eyes, but it’s just for show. Stiles is kind of cute when he’s feeling offended. “Fine, whatever,” he makes a big show of reluctance, hemming and hawing halfheartedly before finally conceding. “Knock yourself out,” he says with his driest tone, though he arches his neck a little in invitation. Stiles immediately swoops down to attack his Adam’s apple with nibbles and licks.

They are quiet for the next couple of minutes, Stiles steadily working a slew of tiny bite marks into random patterns down the column of Derek’s throat and Derek serenely enduring the molestations while absentmindedly petting Stiles’s hair. In the meantime, Derek finally manages to peel the clingy sock off, and is pleased to be able to feel the scratchy hairs on Stiles’s calves against both feet.

The peaceful lull lasts until there is a near imperceptible falter in the steady, rapid rhythm of Stiles’s heartbeat, just for a moment, and his usually clean, sweet scent sours slightly with distress. Stiles pulls away and lifts his head, eyebrows furrowed, and says hesitantly, “Why _haven’t_ I gotten more hickeys from you though? All jokes aside, I _know_  you wolves like necks because of, I dunno, scent marking or pack hierarchy or whatever territorial shit that gets you guys all hairy and growly. I have seen the states of Lydia and Allison’s necks after date nights, okay, and I have had the misfortune to witness Erica and Boyd going at it on multiple occasions and—” he grimaces and trails off, slumping down with his hands folded on Derek’s chest. There’s a small frown on his face now as he stares resolutely down at his twiddling thumbs.

Derek sighs. “I like your neck fine, Stiles; believe me, I would love to mark you up. It’s just—the last thing I need right now is providing the Sheriff of Beacon Hills with a constant reminder that his teenage son is dating a twenty-something  _werewolf_  by having you parade around sporting a wreath of love bites on your neck. He already hates me; he also has a collection of wolfsbane bullets now. I’d rather not push my luck,” he says with a one-shoulder shrug and a wry smile. He raises a hand to cup the back of Stiles’s head, gently guiding him down so he can bury his nose into his neck. “You smell like me, you know. I love it,” he murmurs against his skin, inhales deeply and brushes a light peck of a kiss there, then adjusts his hold to pull Stiles into a proper kiss.

When they part again some pleasurable minutes later, Stiles’s face has cleared, the frown replaced by a sweet little smile. Derek watches the slight upward tilt of the corner of his lips and feels his heart swell with a new surge of affection. He traces the bow of Stiles’s mouth with his thumb, then strokes a delicate cheekbone, a brow.

Stiles leans into Derek’s palm for a while, nuzzling against the inside of his wrist, then tilts his face down to brush a string of tiny kisses up along Derek’s jaw, oozing happiness and contentment. Then he pauses and turns to snigger into the hair at Derek’s temple.

“Hate to break it to you bro, but Dad’s totally onto you anyway,” he cackles down at Derek, propped up on his elbows, his eyes dancing with mischief and barely contained mirth. “Two words for you, buddy: Stubble. _Burn_.” He drawls out the last syllable, sounding insufferably gleeful, and punctuates the statement by scratching his nails through Derek’s five o’clock—well, probably more like five o’clock a few days after—shadow  _which is in no way, shape or form a “designer beard” no matter what Stiles says_.

Derek groans and tries unsuccessfully to smother himself with a pillow.

Stiles blithely ignores him and goes on caressing his jaw, runs fingers down through his chest hair, pinches a nipple. “So, I’m just saying, should you ever feel the urge to mark me up in any way, don’t stop on my dad’s account,  _because he already knows_.” He looks way too amused by that fact.

He soon turns his attention back to Derek’s neck though, trailing his hands back over the dusting of stubble there. He hums happily, apparently satisfied by what he finds, a blinding smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Mm, your neck is back to hickey-free now. Excellent, I can start over again!” He wriggles a bit to get into a more comfortable position and says, looking extremely pleased with himself, “See, this is the advantage of having a boyfriend with magical werewolf healing powers,” he ducks down to drag his teeth over Derek’s stubbly chin, then slowly, methodically, begins biting and licking his way down Derek’s neck. His voice is muffled when he speaks up again a moment later, not bothering to remove his lips from skin. “I can do-” a bite, “- _whatever_  I like-” bite, lick, “-to your neck,” three sloppy kisses and a long lick, “for as long-” a quick succession of bites, “-as I like,” a particularly sharp nip, “and don’t ever have to worry about running out of room,” he finishes with a lingering kiss right at the hollow of Derek’s throat, deliberately slobbery and disgusting. He then blows lightly over the spot, the devious little asshole, and the sudden coldness makes Derek jolt in surprise.

Derek’s hands have planted themselves firmly on Stiles’s back by that time and have been tracing random patterns across Stiles’s shoulder blades, so he lands a playful smack on one shoulder as a token protest. Stiles grins cheekily and sticks his tongue out at him, then moves lower to start a new set of fleeting bruises across his collarbones.

“Yeah, it’s great,” Derek tells the ceiling, lazily dragging his fingers through the soft, damp curls at Stiles’s nape, “because I really don’t want to walk around town looking like an extra from some bad horror film featuring angry grizzly bears that like to snack on necks. Or worse,  _vampires_ ,” he shudders. “And don’t call me  _bro_. Or buddy,” he adds as an afterthought, tugging on a tuft of Stiles’s shaggy hair in emphasis.

Stiles doesn’t reply. Instead, he promptly shifts the angle of his head and, without warning, sinks his blunt teeth into the meat of Derek’s shoulder in a vicious bite, actually managing to break a bit of skin. Derek recoils with a hiss, more from surprise than from pain, and instinctively turns to watch as the broken skin knits itself back together. The indentations in the shape of Stiles’s teeth take a while longer to fade, but all traces of the bite are gone in under a minute. Stiles laps up the tiny pinprick of blood that had managed to seep out before the wound healed properly, leaving the skin of Derek’s shoulder clean and unmarred, as if nothing had happened. The two of them stare wordlessly at the perfectly smooth patch of skin together for a moment.

Derek flexes his shoulder a little, the vague twinge of phantom pain the only reminder of the damage Stiles had done there just moments ago. Even the metallic tang of blood, usually so offensive to his sensitive nose, is barely noticeable in the air now, almost entirely obscured by the heady scent of fresh arousal that’s been gradually building between them. He huffs out a breath and clears his throat.

“I swear to God, Stiles, you’re worse than a teething pup. Are you trying to sharpen your teeth or something?”

Stiles pouts at that and cranes his neck to nip at the tip of his nose, then shoots him an theatrically unimpressed look. “Yeah, ha ha, you’re a real comedian, Hale. Just you wait, I’m gonna get you but good next time,” he says ominously, and then leers, wicked twinkle in his eyes.

Derek responds with his own smirk, and Stiles gives him an eyebrow wiggle and a lascivious wink before flopping down to nose at the soft skin behind Derek’s ear, a hand buried in Derek’s hair to keep his head in place. Before long he’s moved on to mouthing delicately at Derek’s ear, licking the shell of it, mapping out the whorls and every sensitive curve, and making sure to tug carefully with his teeth now and then, sending zips of shivery pleasure down Derek’s spine. Stiles worries at the tender skin and cartilage for a while longer before he unexpectedly lets go and perks up.

“Now that you mentioned it, it  _did_  hurt like a bitch when I bit my tongue by accident last week. Like, more than the other times.”

Derek snorts and twists his head to peer at where Stiles is now perched with his elbows digging into his pecs, and raises an eyebrow as Stiles runs the tip of his tongue over his sharp little canines. They  _do_  look pretty pointy, although still definitely human. Stiles grins at him, wide and impish and all teeth, and then wrinkles his nose in an adorable mock snarl. He manages to make it sound a little feral and almost wolfish, kind of like a puppy’s first attempt at growling, but he ruins it all by dissolving into helpless giggles not two seconds later.

Derek doesn’t fare much better, to be honest; his poker face lasts all of five seconds before collapsing. He does not giggle though. He  _doesn’t_.

They keep setting each other off again every time either of them manages to regain some semblance of composure, so it was a good while before their laughter tapers off and they are able to settle against each other to catch their breaths.

Stiles is a warm and pliant weight heavy against Derek’s chest, his chin propped on neatly folded hands at Derek’s sternum. He’s a lovely sight to behold, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks and wide, beautiful smile, mouth swollen obscenely from its earlier pursuit and hair standing up in messy tufts in every which direction, sweaty from sex and mussed by Derek’s roaming hands. His shoulders still tremble every now and then with silent chuckles, and he’s gently moving up and down with the heave of Derek’s chest as his breathing gradually slows.

Their gazes catch and hold, and this time neither of them burst into giggles. They drift closer and closer, almost unconsciously, until their noses brush. Stiles’s eyelashes flutter, and in the next moment, their lips are meeting at the perfect angle for a kiss.

They must have done this a thousand times now, long, drawn-out make out sessions for the simple pleasure of kissing someone you love. (Neither of them has actually brought up the L-word yet; Derek is working on it.) They kiss like that for a long while, just slanting their mouths together again and again, easy and unhurried, their movements fluid and in tune like an intricate dance.

By the time Stiles pulls back, just far enough for Derek’s upper lip to slip out with a pop from between Stiles’s teeth, Derek is feeling utterly and genuinely relaxed for the first time in days. Everything feels slow and lethargic, soft and sticky like molasses. Stiles looks down at him fondly, a hand on his cheek tracing tiny circles over his cheekbone. His eyes are hungry as they rove down Derek’s face to rest on his mouth.

Derek licks his sore lips, biting down a little, even as the ache is already starting to fade. Stiles looks on silently, then turns to stare at the perfectly unblemished skin over Derek’s deltoid, rubbing the pad of his thumb over where he’d bitten Derek before and then pressing down, hard enough to bruise, if only momentarily for a werewolf. Derek’s breath hitches in his throat.

“I like the look of my marks on your skin,” Stiles says, voice low and husky, sounding wistful and uncharacteristically shy, eyes still riveted to the spot on Derek’s shoulder. His lips part on a little sigh as he presses down again, and again, and again, digging in with his blunt fingernail.

Derek makes a low, involuntary sound at the back of his throat. He surges up to haul Stiles down with a rough hand in his hair and kisses him again, hard and dirty, nothing lethargic about it at all, and Stiles whines high and needy in his throat, clumsy fingers scrabbling for purchase against his shoulders and neck. He makes another helpless sound when Derek moves to kiss his eyelid, his nose, the moles over his eyebrow and at the corner of his mouth.

“Me too,” Derek whispers softly into a pink-tipped ear, then wrenches a fistful of hair until his favorite spot right under the hinge of Stiles’s jaw, where the skin is baby soft and decorated with a smattering of moles, is within easy reach. Without further ado, Derek goes to town, biting and sucking to his heart’s content—like he’s always wanted to—until a magnificent bruise forms, stark red-purple against pale, freckled skin, there for the world to see.

Stiles has already melted into him with a shamelessly loud moan at the first hint of teeth against his skin, and has been emitting a stream of increasingly incoherent noises. By the time Derek is satisfied with his handiwork and removes his mouth with a final sloppy lick, Stiles has apparently lost his ability to even whimper, let alone form speech. He remains sprawled, utterly boneless (except for his dick which is back to fully erect and poking Derek in the thigh, demanding attention), against Derek for several long minutes, the only visible signs of movement his harsh panting and the fine little tremors quivering down his spine.

Derek feels the flickering of Stiles’s eyelashes against his skin before Stiles opens his eyes, revealing irises almost completely engulfed by the blackness of his dilated pupils. He looks dazed, almost drugged, blush high across his cheeks, his mouth slack as he struggles to slow his breathing. He visibly shakes himself to try to gather his wits, and then lifts a hand to finger the mark below his jaw, releasing a slow hiss as he gingerly rubs at the tender skin. His heartbeat stutters and his eyes slip shut, but this time the accompanying scent is unmistakably that of unadulterated  _lust_. Derek is nearly vibrating with the satisfaction of a job well done and anticipation of what’s yet to come.

Stiles gulps once audibly before he reopens his eyes, now with a new dangerous glint in them that raises Derek’s hackles, makes his heart pound. Stiles abruptly tenses all over and, in one fluid maneuver, flips them over so Derek is the one pinning Stiles down into the mattress.

“Oof!” He gasps under the sudden additional weight, slightly winded, and then huffs out a bark of breathless laughter, surprised and delighted. “Aw yeah, I’ve got _ninja_ moves.” He has the gall to pump his fist, then settles languidly into the pillows and looks up at Derek, expression open and unafraid. “Ready for round two, Wolf Boy?” The sharp, wolfish grin from earlier makes a triumphant return, now with added brazenness and heated intent, an irresistible combination which transforms Stiles’s face into something vibrant and untamed and unbearably sexy.

He rolls his hips languorously up against Derek while peeking coyly up at him from under his long eyelashes, eyes dark and half-lidded and full of challenge. He looks well and truly debauched and is unapologetic about it, utterly at home lounging bare-ass naked under Derek in his bed; the picture he makes is gloriously decadent and downright sinful, and Derek feels drawn to him like moth to a flame, hopelessly enamored and absolutely, positively, completely fucked.

He leans in to get his fill.

He kisses him deeply and eases his torso down until they’re all but melded together from shoulder to hip. Stiles’s skin is smooth and flushed, giving off waves of mouth-watering scents to mix beautifully with Derek’s own musk. He can’t resist rubbing himself against Stiles’s body a little to soak in that delicious scent and to generate more heat, and by extension more of that intoxicating smell, so the air in the room is soon saturated with their combined scent. The result is heady and almost overpowering, driving him a little bit wild.

Stiles readily opens up for his eager, almost frantic kisses, pulling at his hair and ears with fingers slightly clumsy with arousal and kissing him back sloppily, sucking enthusiastically on his tongue like he just can’t get enough. He makes these small, satisfied sounds at the back of his throat and arches up to press more of their skin together, to get more of that amazing friction.

He trails biting kisses down the line of Stiles’s jaw, sucks lightly on his mark to make Stiles groan and shake against him, and continues to rock their hips together in a steady rhythm, marginally faster now. He can’t help grinding his erection down into Stiles, just a little, painting thin trails of wetness in the groove of Stiles’s hip. He rests his forehead on Stiles’s collarbones and listens to the frantic thudding of their hearts, slightly off-beat but oddly harmonious.

Stiles’s clever fingers skid their way down Derek’s shoulders and back, kneading at the knots in his muscles, and methodically search out each of the secret vulnerable places that Derek keeps well-guarded from the rest of the world which Stiles has probably memorized; the dip of his back, his left hip, the spots high up the sides of his ribcage, his lower belly. Stiles touches each spot tenderly, doesn’t even try to tickle him (though he’s been known to initiate sneak attacks on several previous occasions ever since he found that Derek is, in fact, _ticklish_ ), and saves the hollow of his throat for last. Derek lifts his head so Stiles can cradle his jaw between careful hands and press both thumbs into the soft dip of skin. He obligingly stretches and eases down when Stiles tugs at him slightly, and lets Stiles get at his neck. He contents himself with running his hands all over Stiles’s body.

Soon Stiles is wrapping his legs around him, trailing his feet tantalizingly up the backs of Derek’s thighs until his heels are digging into Derek’s ass and pressing down in blatant invitation. Then, as if worried _that_ wasn’t incentive enough for Derek to get on with things, he draws the fore- and middle finger of Derek’s right hand between his already abused-looking lips and begins to do awful, wonderful things to said fingers, trying his best to smolder up at Derek with his come-hither eyes all the while.

Derek doesn’t realize that he’s growling deep in his chest until the stinging of teeth on the pads of his fingers suddenly disappears and he looks up from Stiles’s mouth to see Stiles blinking owlishly at him, jaws slack in surprise. He cuts himself off and coughs awkwardly, and a smug look slowly steals over Stiles’s features. Derek makes to withdraw his fingers and Stiles immediately wraps his legs tighter around him and latches on to his wrist petulantly, returning to his ministrations with renewed vigor and sending delicious little sparks all the way down to the tips of Derek’s toes.

“I like that I can make you let your guard down and lose even just a fraction of your freakish control,” he slurs out against Derek’s knuckles as he licks across them, “And. Well. If Wolfy wants to come out and play, I am totally down for that. Just so you know.” His voice is low and raspy with want, his eyes are fearless and unwavering, and his heart doesn’t stutter once as he speaks.

“Maybe next time.” Derek’s own voice sounds wrecked. He closes his eyes and breathes out once, slowly, and then pulls his hand back again. This time Stiles lets him go, and Derek traces one finger over his plushy lower lip, making it even shinier with spit. Stiles chases after his retreating fingers to drop a soft kiss to the tip before flopping back down into the pillows, where he settles purposefully with a little stretch that puts an enticing arch in his back. And then, because Stiles is a shameless tease and about as subtle as a sledge hammer to the head, he proceeds to bend his knees and spread his legs indecently wide, with a hip wriggle thrown in for good measure. He raises an eyebrow with a pointed look at Derek.

Derek snorts but takes the very unsubtle hints at last and leans over on one elbow to fumble blindly for the lube where they had haphazardly discarded it on the floor by the bed not an hour before. Stiles, sneaky little shit that he is, takes advantage of Derek’s distraction to strain up and repeat the bite-flick combo from earlier in quick succession down his bicep. Derek shudders at the quick, barely-there flickers of sensation and nearly drops the small bottle his grappling fingers have just managed to locate.

He curses under his breath and flings the bottle of lube down on the bed before he lunges over to slam Stiles’s shoulders down and then pin his hands to the sheets by either sides of his head.

Stiles gives him a sly smirk. “I _knew_ you liked that tongue-flick thing,” he says, looking pleased with himself and utterly unrepentant.

Derek doesn’t rise to the taunt, just crowds closer, forcing Stiles’s thighs further apart with his own thighs, and maneuvers so that he’s trapping both of Stiles’s wrists under one palm while he grabs the lube with the other. He expertly coats two fingers and reaches right down to start with the prep, deliberately foregoing his usual warm up process.

Stiles yelps and instinctively tries to shy away from the cold, probing fingers, but Derek leans forward to pin him down with his wider and heavier bulk and presses on insistently into the pulsing warmth of Stiles’s body, where he is already loosened slightly from the brief fingering Derek gave him during round one and the ensuing orgasm. Stiles hisses sharply through his teeth, muscles going tense on reflex, until Derek crooks his fingers _just so_ , and then Stiles is too busy groaning and cursing an increasingly creative string of expletives to care about much else.

“You _asshole_ ,” he grits out at the end of a low, drawn-out moan, trying hard to glare but powerless to hide the glassy look in his eyes and the stubborn curl of a tiny grin at his lips.

“I _knew_ you’d like my fingers cold,” Derek mimics childishly, not bothering to disguise his glee. “You’d take my fingers up your ass any way you can, wouldn’t you.”

“Fuck y—” Stiles’s doubtless smartass comment cuts off with a violent shudder when Derek drags a finger across _that spot_ again, and he can only wheeze when Derek eases back off a few long seconds later. “Oh my God I hate you so much—oh God oh God oh _shit_ —”

Derek takes his time, alternating between slow, even strokes coupled with flicks and twists and careful scissoring to stretch Stiles open and quick, well-timed taps to his prostate to keep him worked up. He has to thrust intermittently against Stiles’s thigh to relieve some of the building tension, and soon he’s adding a third finger, and then the tip of his pinky just because he can. Stiles is a thrashing and shivery mess beneath him, face and neck flushed, the color slowly spreading down his chest, cock stiff and an angry dark red against his twitching abdomen, where a small pool of precome has gathered just below the head.

Stiles wails like he’s dying when he bends down to lap up the sweet-smelling goodness, and actually tries to kick Derek in the shin when he goes to catch the next dribble right from the source.

“ _Oh my God you goddamn fucking cocktease will you just fucking bone me already_!” Stiles explodes, body bucking fruitlessly under his hold, straining up taut as a bow. He groans with frustration when Derek holds himself up just out of reach. “The actual—worst— _fuck_ —” He flops back down with a thump, chest heaving with exertion. “Come _on_!” He grits out, voice cracking. There’s a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead and all over his body, giving his skin a gorgeous glistening glow. The stench of sweat and slick and sex and _Stiles_ is pungent in Derek’s nostrils and he breathes in deep, savors it.

“Patience,” he mock-scolds, giving one last hard thrust with his hand. He withdraws slowly, marveling at the way Stiles’s body clings to him, reluctant to let him go. He gives a final tug to the rim before pulling away, making Stiles gasp and flinch and glare balefully. The glare turns into a smoldering gaze at the familiar click of a plastic cap and the succeeding squelch as Derek lubes up his hand.

Stiles watches the progress of his hand on his dick greedily as Derek briskly slicks himself up, and dutifully lifts his hips for the pillow Derek snatches over for him. Derek gives him a warning look before he releases his wrists, and Stiles is obedient for once, doesn’t fight him when he reaches up to fold Stiles’s fingers around the low headboard, drapes one long leg over his shoulder, wraps the other around his waist; Stiles just lies there, docile and compliant, and watches Derek silently with a single-minded focus that is both gratifying and exhilarating to see.

Derek leans over and interlaces the fingers of one hand with one of Stiles’s on the headboard, and doesn’t look down when he guides himself in, and in, and in, ever so slowly, has only eyes for the myriad of expressions that flash across that mobile face inches below him, from anticipation to satisfaction to that first wince of discomfort, which only lasts for a few seconds as Derek pushes in further, and it quickly fades into wonder and contentment and sweet, sweet reverence. He can’t look away, even though everything from the feeble keening sounds Stiles keeps making from the back of his throat to the warm, perfect fluttering around his dick, to the way they fit together _just right_ , cheesy as it sounds, all threaten to overwhelm him.

He stills when his groin is flush against the cradle of Stiles’s hips and waits with bated breath for Stiles to give him the okay to proceed, smoothing a hand up and down the lean thigh hooked over his shoulder. Stiles doesn’t feel like waiting though, apparently, and Derek’s breath rushes out of him in a noisy exhale as Stiles clenches around him and uses both legs to pull him closer, deeper.

Stiles licks his lips and looks up at him challengingly. “Give it to me,” he says in a hoarse whisper, following with a deliberate roll of his hips.

Derek doesn’t need more incentive than that, so he immediately pulls back almost all the way out and slams back in, jostling Stiles’s whole body several inches up the bed. Stiles lets out a guttural moan and squirms back close, eggs him on, hips rocking, and flexes his arms and shoulders to get better leverage.

Derek quickly settles on a punishing rhythm, rutting into Stiles hard and fast, and Stiles, always so delightfully responsive, is fast becoming incoherent. He has a white-knuckled grip on the headboard and his head tilted back, neck exposed, back arched, the picture of enthralled ecstasy. Every pump of Derek’s cock into him drives a morsel of delectable noises out from his lips, some odd mixture of Derek’s name and “yes” and “oh” and quiet little sobs and moans. Derek takes hold of the headboard with both hands and leans in to bump their foreheads together, lick at the sweat beading on Stiles’s upper lip, kiss the corner of his mouth. Stiles turns and blindly seeks out his mouth, kisses him desperately, licking into his mouth and making these frantic little keens, his babbling having since become subverbal.

Derek kisses back with just as much fervor, slows his hips a fraction to a more measured pace, thrusts going even and deep, but never lets his rhythm falter. He unclasps a hand to reach out and cup one burning cheek, and presses kiss after tender kiss to his lips, murmuring nonsensical words against them, making shushing, soothing sounds, then gently untangles Stiles’s fingers, one by one, from where they’re clamped almost vice-like around the headboard. He presses a kiss into each palm after he removes them from the heavy wooden frame, rubs them across his stubbled cheek and down his jaw, and then, one after the other, lets them rest limply against each side of his neck, wrists cushioned on his shoulders and bobbing gently up and down with his movements.

He massages Stiles’s probably numb hands until the feeling returns in them, and Stiles is soon flailing to grab hold of anything within reach with weak fingers, scrabbling over his neck and shoulders and back and face, finally settling one on his shoulder and the other at the back of his head, tangling in the mess of his hair.

Stiles uses his hold to wrench him down and drags him into another kiss, which turns filthy fast, all teeth and tongue and no finesse at all. He slings both arms over Derek’s shoulders to hold him close, mashing their clammy chests together, and now that his leg has fallen from its previous perch over Derek’s shoulder, he wraps both legs snugly around his sides, resting his feet on the small of Derek’s back.

He clings to Derek with all the coiled strength in his wiry body, clings until they can’t possibly be any closer, clings so hard that Derek’s movement is restrained to brisk subdued little jerks, but then the new angle of Stiles’s hips is making them both jolt and cry out. Derek feels Stiles’s toes curl against his back, his mouth go slack where it’s pressed under his jaw, and he can smell Stiles’s impending orgasm, can actually taste it on his tongue now it’s so close, a looming presence ready to swoop in at a moment’s notice. So he allows his teeth to begin to sharpen a little, just the slightest hint of fang, and drags the point of his canine over the still tender bruise under Stiles’s jaw, pressing into the fragile flesh delicately.

Stiles’s abruptly goes still and quiet, whole body vibrating with tension, and then Derek drapes himself possessively all over Stiles, pressing down until the mattress creaks, humping mindlessly against him and growling low, and finally the dam bursts. Stiles throws his head back and give an aborted shout, tightening his fingers painfully in Derek’s hair, then shoves his face into the crook of Derek’s neck and bites down brutally, _amazingly_ hard as his climax hits and then holds on through the aftershocks as his body convulses, muffling his scream into Derek’s skin.

A fresh burst of coppery scent erupts in the air as Stiles’s teeth pierce his skin, mixing with the heavy, tangy scent of fresh come, making Derek feel lightheaded. He’s still thrusting into Stiles’s now limp, pliable body, drawing the occasional feeble twitches and shudders whenever his dick brushes anything particularly sensitive, and then he shifts up onto his knees and manhandles Stiles until he’s nearly folded in half and keeps a bruising grip on Stiles’s hips as he pounds into him relentlessly, now at frenzied pace, making Stiles whine in soft distress as his whole body quakes with the force of each thrust and his muscles spasms in overstimulation.

He feels the coil of simmering, pulsing heat curl low in his belly and spread through his veins, just waiting for a spark to ignite its ultimate eruption into something breathtakingly spectacular that will fully consume him. There is sweat stinging in his eyes and trickling down his hairline, and one drop slides down his chin to make an impeccable landing on Stiles’s plush lower lip. Stiles’s face is still slack, eyes half-closed and unfocused and mouth slightly open, but he swipes the droplet up with the tip of his tongue like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and hums appreciatively as if he relishes the taste. And then he’s blinking slowly, alertness gradually returning, and he licks his lips again and looks up with hooded eyes at Derek, just stares and stares as if he wants to lick him all over to taste all of him, chin, elbows, ankles, the backs of his knees, _everything_ , and then he meets Derek’s eyes and there’s _something_ written there on his face, open and adoring, and he doesn’t look away, just holds Derek’s gaze, as if willing him to _get it_ , and Derek _does_ , and that’s what finally tips him over the edge.

Stiles is still watching him avidly when his rhythm stutters and falters with a few last erratic pumps of his hips, and he makes a broken, probably not entirely human sound as he curls in on himself, pulls Stiles’s ass flush against his groin while he slams forward and _in_ as hard and as deeply as he can one final time and just comes and comes and _comes_. Stiles maybe moans, maybe clutches at his shoulders, maybe holds him close, but he can’t say for sure, only knows that he’s coming hard, shaking with it, mind going blank, vision blacking out, ears ringing, every single muscle cramping up until it hurts, and he forgets to breathe, forgets his name, forgets there is anyone else in the world besides him and Stiles.

He ends up faceplanting into Stiles’s pillow when his rigid muscles finally go lax enough for him to slump down from his crouch, landing half on top of Stiles’s boneless sprawl. He lies there struggling to catch his breath, face tucked right next to Stiles with their cheeks pressed together. The space behind Stiles’s ear where his nose is pressed soon becomes hot and damp from his exhales, and one of the sharp ridges of Stiles’s hipbones is digging into his stomach, but he doesn’t want to move, too fucked out and content, skin still tingling from one of the more memorable orgasms in recent memory.

Stiles doesn’t seem to mind being slightly squished, just nuzzles the sides of their cheeks together and scratches his fingers through Derek’s hair over and over. Then he shifts and tangles his legs with Derek’s, presses their crotches close and jostling Derek’s now soft dick still nestled inside him, sending tiny electric thrills up and down his spine, but the sensation is just on the other side of too much. Derek grunts and jerks slightly, but Stiles hums and pats the back of his neck.

“Don’t pull out yet,” he says against the shell of Derek’s ear, voice barely a whisper. Derek shudders and whines low in his throat, then burrows closer into Stiles.

The two of them doze off for a few minutes like that, tucked close and sharing a pillow and still connected intimately, until Stiles starts fidgeting a little, and soon after that he’s prodding at Derek to roll them over, claiming that he can no longer feel his toes. Derek grumbles but obliges, and slips out of Stiles in the process. They both hiss, and Stiles pouts a little in disappointment and then grimaces, no doubt at the feeling of come oozing out of his ass. Their stomachs are also painted anew with streaks of pearly white come that’s already slowly drying and sticking their skin together, but they go straight back to the cuddling since they’re both still basking in the afterglow.

Stiles actually _is_ glowing a little, cheeks pink, eyes soft and bright, and he keeps beaming beatifically down at Derek with this little nose wrinkle every time he catches Derek’s eyes. It’s such an adorable sight that Derek just can’t help himself, and reaches over to bop him lightly on the nose, which has Stiles gasping in mock offense and descending upon him with light punches and playful smacks. This quickly evolves to a brief tussle, then into a tickle fight, until they are somehow back to tangled up in each other.

Stiles bumps their noses together with a giggle, and then they kiss drowsily, noses digging into cheeks, and Derek can still taste the faint hint of his own sweat on Stiles’s tongue. Their kisses grow sluggish, and then they are just mouthing at each other and sharing air.

Eventually Stiles pulls back and stretches luxuriously, back arching like a satisfied cat, before settling and cozying up under Derek’s arm into his side with his head pillowed on Derek’s shoulder. His eyelids are drooping now, and he yawns widely.

“My dad doesn’t really hate you, you know,” he says around the yawn, jaw wide and voice warbled. He palms the side of his face distractedly and gives a happy little shiver when his fingers brush over Derek’s mark. “He just enjoys watching you squirm whenever he’s in the vicinity.” He smirks at him and then shuts his eyes, resting with his cheek against Derek’s chest.

Derek groans. “You Stilinski men are all terrible people.”

“Don’t front, you love us really,” Stiles jabs an uncoordinated finger into his sternum.

Derek snorts and rolls his eyes at the ceiling.

“By the way,” Stiles mumbles sleepily a minute later, “I kind of lied earlier, about the neck kink thing. I think it’s actually a _you_ thing.” He opens one eye and quirks a dopey, lopsided grin half hidden against Derek’s left pec. Derek’s heart skips a beat and then starts beating faster, and Stiles just shuts his eyes again and widens the grin pressed into Derek’s skin, then gives him an affectionate nip.

Derek wordlessly presses a kiss into his hair and tucks Stiles more securely against his side.

“… Did you know that your ears are ridiculously cute, Mr. Hale?”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Also, bunny teeth. Heh heh.”

“ _Go to sleep_ , Stiles.”

Stiles snuffles and quiets and is soon breathing slow and deep. Derek follows moments later, wrapped around him, hand cupped around the back of his neck. And so they sleep, soundly, not stirring until come next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> After one year of ficcing, I'm finally graduating from the Plotless tag to the PWP tag. Yay me?
> 
> Oh God, so I wrote porn. I don't even know anymore, you guys. This fucking thing ate up two whole weeks and I am still stressing over basically everything in it. I really don't know what I'm doing, and I would appreciate feedback, but please be kind. SMUT IS SO HARD TO WRITE, OH MY GOSH, I FEEL SO SELF-CONSCIOUS ABOUT ALL OF THE THINGS. u_u I'll be in a corner nursing the last of my bottle of shitty tequila, awaiting your judgment.
> 
> A big thank-you to anyone who reads through to the end, seriously. THANK YOU.
> 
> Also posted on [tumblr](http://wiskix.tumblr.com/post/73830681631).


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